


Healing by Degrees

by hoshisora



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Romance, So Much Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9029684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoshisora/pseuds/hoshisora
Summary: You meet Tom by pure chance one day in April. You don't know where your paths will go, but that's okay, isn't it?





	1. Chapter 1

So many stories begin with a simple “it was a beautiful day.”

Today did not begin as a beautiful day. It was cloudy and cold for a day in mid April, as though the world had decided to rewind to the gloom of February. To make matters worse, it was your first day at your new job. You weren’t used to waking up before ten in the morning, and the bed seemed more seductive than usual, making it almost impossible to leave the warm, downy covers.

But you managed, pulling on pants, flats, a comfortable sweater (just enough to stop your teeth from chattering) and after some consideration, added a scarf. Coffee from the cafe down the street, a small freshly baked bun from the local bakery, and then you found yourself standing in the middle of a crowded bus filled with briefcase-toting people in boring suits, moody teenagers with their ears plugged up in heavy metal, and mothers who stared blankly ahead as they bounced their wailing kid on their hip.

The studio was bigger than you’d imagined. The security guard was nice though, and he smiled as he handed you your pass. Trying not to appear overly grateful or desperate, you thanked him maybe five times, then hurried off to the entrance and headed over to the trailer where the boss had said you’d be working. You’d been to the studio before and had the briefing and all but nevertheless, today was your actual first day.

Being a makeup artist and a costume designer wasn’t exactly as easy as other people had thought it would be. You’d have to hope that the person you were applying makeup to was used to it, that they wouldn’t move too much, and that they had enough patience for you when you inevitably messed up. There was a clipboard on the wall of the trailer, and you took it off, glancing through the papers, searching for the information about your job today, all the while wondering why no one was there to greet you and show you around or even make sure you were the right person. But you loved your job. It was worth every minute, every hour that you had ever put into it.

 _Okay, yeah. I can manage this_ , you thought. _You graduated cosmetics school. You’ve always done well. You have heaps of experience. Calm down._

You look up from the paper and smile at the woman in the chair, who smiles back at you, and you wonder if she knows that this is your first day and that you’re about two steps from pissing yourself. “Miss… Rogers. Hi, I’ll be your makeup artist today. Now, it says here that you’ll be --”

“We need a makeup artist now! You, new girl, come with me!” Some woman with styled ringlets comes charging into your trailer and beckons rather impatiently for you to follow, then leaves without making sure that you’re actually following. You turn to the woman in the chair who looks mildly alarmed and a bit irritated, and you apologize more times than you can count, bowing hastily as you retreat backwards and shut the trailer door behind you.

Following the woman into the main building and down several corridors that grow fancier and fancier at a steady pace, she stops abruptly at a door and waits for you to catch up. You pant heavily as you hear her say something along the lines of treating the man inside like royalty. What the hell. She knocks on the door, and her voice changes instantly to the equivalent of human birdsong as she says, “Mr. Hiddleston, sir, she’s here.” Then she shoves you into the room and shuts the door behind you.

Shit.

He’s facing away from you, and you sort of shuffle forward and stammer out a cautious “hello” before he turns in the seat and smiles. Dazzlingly.

“Well, hello to you. You’re obviously not Clara--”

The confused look on your face makes him pause, and he backtracks to explain.

“Clara’s my usual makeup artist. So you’re new here? It’s always nice to meet someone new.”

Damn, this man is polite. You don’t even know what to say because your brain just kind of stops as he unfolds his legs- really long legs- and gets up from the chair and walks towards you. He extends his hand, and you stare blankly at it before realizing that what he wants is a handshake. Putting your hand in his, tiny in comparison to the oval palms and long fingers, you manage a small smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, and his warm smile catches you off guard.

“O-oh, uh, er--”

“Yes?”

“Y-you too? Nice to greet you-- No! Uh, I mean meet you. Meet you! Nice to meet you. Ha. Haha...” God, that is not how you meant for it to come out. _I'm a fucking idiot._

He laughs. No, wait, it’s not really a laugh. It’s more of a quiet _ehehe_ , a chuckle, something small and cute and oddly homely that makes you crack a smile and move your hands away from your blushing face.

“Here, let’s get started. We can talk as you work.” You follow him to the makeup table, where a simple but elegantly chosen array of cosmetic products had already been laid out on the marble surface. Simple, elegant, but ridiculously expensive. The eyeliner alone is easily one week’s salary.

You find out that his name is Thomas Hiddleston, though he likes to be called Tom. When he tells you his last name, you laugh a little and he feigns offense (“What, is that funny to you?”). His eyes crinkle at you in the mirror. 

"So what do you do?" you ask, brushing out his curls. 

“I dabble in acting, most theater. Maybe you’ve seen one of my performances?"

"Er..."

"The _Gathering Storm_? _Unrelated_?”

You shake your head. He sighs a little.

“Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. I’m not very well known. Mmm… how about Shakespeare? Do you like _Othello_?”

There’s a dim memory, some young actor dressed in black leather, lithe and passionate in his role of Cassio. The Donmar Warehouse was no glorious Broadway theatre, but you sat in the second row and in one of the scenes, he’d passed very close to you; so close, you could see tiny pearls of sweat shining through his stage makeup.

But you don’t tell him all of this. You just smile and reply _“Othello!_ I’ve seen _Othello!”_ and he smiles in return. “I really love Shakespeare. I haven’t had much opportunity to see performances, but I certainly remember yours. Cassio, right?”

“That’s right!” his face lights up. “I haven’t met many people who know me just from Shakespeare. Then again, I haven’t met many people who know me at all. But it’s quite pleasing to meet another fan of his works. And truthfully, _Othello_ was one of my best performances. ”

“I’m glad to have seen it then,” you smile as you pick up the mascara. He doesn’t need it, really, because his eyelashes are already so long. And his complexion is perfect, even without the foundation. Most people, no matter how perfect from a distance, are oily and porous up close; but Tom's skin is perfect, his pores barely visible, and he positively glows. You compliment him on this, and continue comparing favorite plays and sonnets. The conversation topic jumps from theatre to movies to books to favorite foods to beautiful places in London. And before either of you knew it, you were done. Stepping back to admire your handiwork, you watch as he examines himself in the mirror.

“Wow. You’ve done a real number on my cheekbones,” he says, turning his face. You’d only darkened the areas below them a bit after a light brushing of foundation and bronzer. They were already defined and well structured. It felt bad taking the money for this job, it was so effortless.

“Haha, yeah, well, the memo said that you were in for a black and white photoshoot, and they probably wanted more contrast, but I think this’ll be more… fitting.”

He chuckles again, that soft _ehehe_ that reverberates in your heart and makes your stomach tingle. “Clara would have never dared to do that,” he says, almost wistfully. “Go against her instructions, I mean. Sometimes I see the photos and I wonder who the man in the photographs is. It’s hard to be yourself. Still, I wouldn't give up acting for the world."

For a moment, you want to give him a hug and tell him it’s alright, that it’ll be alright, but you don’t. Instead, you touch his shoulder and smile at his reflection in the mirror. “Ready?”

“Yes. Thank you, love.”

“It was my pleasure.” And you step back and watch him leave, this tall, talented, curly-haired man with eyes that pierce the soul and a deep love of Shakespeare, and you sigh when he closes the door behind him. Your heart flutters a little at the way his lips moved when he called you “love,” and you sink into the chair.

The bottles and sprays and tubes lie in disarray on the table, and you gather them up, setting them back into the basket. _I’ll never see him again_ , you remind yourself. _It would do you good not to crush on every actor you work with, because they’re not people you can be with_. They are stars that shine far out of reach. Besides, you only met him through a lucky fluke, some stroke of luck that should have never happened.

You reach for the last thing on the table, a small palette of skin toned powders, and underneath is a tiny slip of paper. Picking it up, your face widens into a smile as you see his name scrawled, large elegant capitals and small linked lowercases, with a number and a tiny message underneath. “I’d love to talk again,” you whisper to yourself, “Tom.” And you suddenly realize how silly you must seem, just a girl in a makeup room on her first day at work who clutches a tiny piece of paper as though it’s a flimsy lifeline to a world that just might float away.

Finding your way out of the building through a side entrance, the setting sun glows orange and red behind dark rainclouds and you glance up at the sky, hoping that it won’t start until you got home. A limo pulls up at the main entrance, and you see Tom get in, accompanied by important-looking people in suits and black, flattering dresses. He doesn’t see you when you wave in his direction, and you lower your arm halfheartedly.

You walk a block down to the bus stop where you check your wallet for money to buy a bus ticket, having forgotten to renew your pass again, and you find out that you’ve got less than a pound left. Not even enough for bus fare. And you look at the sky and hope dearly that the rain can wait.

 

 + + +

 

The rain, as it turns out, is an impatient fucker, and you make it six blocks before you are completely and utterly soaked to the bone. Your sweater- thank goodness it’s only cotton and not something more expensive- hangs down and drips, just like the thin tendrils of your hair that you have to brush out of your eyes every couple of seconds.

Taking a minute to duck under an storefront, you realize that your pants are entirely soaked, and even worse, the little slip of paper tucked away in your pocket. You pull it out and your worst fears are confirmed: the ink is illegible, and you can’t help but cry a little at your broken hope that was already feeble to begin with.

You trudge home, taking your time, shivering and holding yourself against the wind and the little biting darts of ice cold rain in should-be-warmer April. It’s dark by the time you reach your flat, and the moment the front door closes, you strip and throw down your wet clothes, leaving a trail of shirts and crumpled pants and lingerie to the shower. The warm jet of rain taps your shoulders and flushes the faint makeup stains from your face.

When you are done, you climb out, towel dry, and slip on a soft nightgown, collapsing on the bed.

Your dreams are filled with grey-eyed angels and storms at sea and messages in bottles that wipe themselves clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting chapters every Friday night (exact time to be determined).   
> Hope you enjoyed reading!


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Saturday. There’s no work today. Thank god for that. You wake up and the moment your eyes open, you feel upset. _It’s so stupid, I know, so stop doing that_ , you tell yourself. You were just nice to him and he felt bad for you. He was just being nice. And polite. Even if you did have his number, you’d probably just talk for a couple weeks and then forget about each other. But that’s just the thing about pain. Pain isn’t very easy to shelve away.

Same routine on weekends. Coffee. Fresh bread. Comfortable clothes and a book. A walk in the park. A secluded little spot under a tree. But today, silence and solitude become loneliness. F. Scott Fitzgerald, for today, is not a good enough companion.

And so, the weekend passes. You go to work again, thinking “he won’t come back” and yet, you catch your eyes looking for the figure you’d memorized, hoping to see him in the hallways. One day, two days, a week passes. You make a friend. The friend leaves you upon realizing that all you can talk about is Shakespeare and the weather. Then another week. The ringlets lady turns out to be your boss’s boss. She compliments your work and admits you did a fine job on Tom. Your heart twinges. You earn a pay raise. And a promotion. Another week passes. And another. Then another.

It’s the end of May now, a balmy and silenced Wednesday, and you have an office of your own and a couple interns who follow you around like puppies. They’re nice kids, Marty and Iris, and they love the job almost more than you do. Their enthusiasm is impossibly wonderful.

“Iris, could you get some hot water? We’re all out, and I’d like some tea.” You lift up the kettle with one hand while continuing to write with the other, not even looking up when a cheery voice replies “sure!” and the kettle disappears. Reminds you of your multitasking days in college.

A knock sounds on the door, breaking your concentration, and you put the pen down and look up. “Iris, the door isn’t locked!”

The door opens slowly, and someone peeks in. “Bad time?”

You get up from the desk, and the butterflies have already started to bounce rather violently off the walls of your stomach. “T-- Mr. Hiddleston, sir, what are you doing here?”

“Tom.”

“Sorry.”

“You never called. Not that I assumed you would, but I rather enjoyed talking to you.” His smile is sheepish, and he fiddles with his hands.

“Well, I, uh--” _I really wanted to, but it was raining and then I couldn’t read the slip of paper and I couldn’t possibly have asked to go into the archives for your contact information and your personal number probably wasn’t on it and I didn’t want to call your manager and come off as a stalker or anything so I just… I just…_ The entire shitty thing runs through your head and you would like nothing more at the moment than to just disappear on the spot. Instead, you simply stare at your feet and try not to look at the disappointed look on his face. You think that would hurt a lot.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure there’s a reason. We can chat over a cup of tea.”

You look up, and he’s smiling.

“A cup of tea?”

“Well, yes, I was thinking tomorrow night or the night after at a cafe. Whenever suits you best.”

“Is this a date?”

That chuckle. “Perhaps. When do you think you’ll be free?”

“Um, I have to work late tomorrow, so Friday night?”

“Friday night then. And here,” he steps in and sweeps past you to the desk, and you catch a faint whiff of his cologne as he picks up the pen and writes his number down on the desk calendar, putting a circle around Friday. He winks at you as he sidles towards the door.

“Don’t forget, love. I’ll pick you up here at seven.”

You heart twinges. “Of course.”

He leaves and you pull out your new phone (the old one also died in that cursed rain a while back) and enter in the number. _Is it a date? Or is it not a date? A date or not a date?_ you ponder, and Iris comes back into the room. Despite being an intern, she’s only three years younger than you, and you can practically see her eyes widen, even without looking up.

You continue to stare at your phone, moving your fingers over the black screen in an attempt to look busy. “What?”

“Who was that?”

“No one in particular,” you lie, though you can’t keep from smiling.

“Oh, come on now!” she sighs, slightly cross, and pulls the phone out of your hands.

“Hey!” It’s really hard to be irritated with Iris, and you involuntarily crack a grin.

“Tell me, or you’re not getting it back.”

“Alright, fine.” You back up and sit on the desk, shuffling aside commissions and forms and other crap. “I’ll tell, I’ll tell.”

“You’d better. Here.” She offers you a cup of tea, holding one for herself, and you accept it, letting the warmth seep through the china and into your hands.

“Well, where do I begin?”

“From the beginning.”

“Okay. Fine. Er, so I met him a while back on my first day on the job, when I was just a makeup artist, and I’d been pulled out of work with my first client because they were short that day and I was brought to work on him for a photoshoot…” And before long, the entire story is out, and she stares at you like you’re some kind of mythical being.

“What?”

“Well, he’s a catch, alright.”

You raise your eyebrows. “And what is that supposed to mean?” Iris leans back in exasperation, her dark curls bobbing around her tanned face.

“Darling, he’s got to be more than six feet tall! And those cheekbones. And those eyes.” She pretends to swoon.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to react to that.”

“Well, whatever. Have fun on your date.” She smiles and gets up to leave. At the door, she suddenly pauses and looks back. “You… you should be careful,” she says slowly. “He’s an actor, and he might not be well-known now, but… just don’t let him hurt you in any way. That’s all.”

You laugh. “I don’t think he’d hurt me, Iris,” you say.

“I know, darling. The thing is, you’re too kind to think anyone’d ever hurt you.” The door closes behind her, leaving you with nothing but your thoughts.

 _Hurt me?_ you wonder.

_What a strange thought._ _He wouldn't do that._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not Friday! Surprise!

The last couple days feel unbelievably long. You notice that you've started watching the seconds tick by on the clock again, a habit you’d thought you’d left behind a long time ago. Apparently not.

Five o’ clock rings, and all the alarms you set start to ring loudly both in your head and on your desk. You hastily turn all of them off, trying desperately to shuffle all the papers into two neat piles of finished and unfinished work. Grabbing your bag and your phone, you hurry to catch the 5:15 bus back home.

Arriving at your flat, you shut the door behind you and drop your keys and everything else on the floor. _Okay, shower first, simple makeup, nice but casual dress. You have a date. You have a_ date _! Okay. Okay. You can do this._

The shower takes only ten minutes, during which you scrub yourself until your skin turns a burning, bright baby pink. The cold air smarts on your skin. Towel dry, blow dry hair. _Does he like curls or straight hair? Fuck, who knows? Let it dry, and then we’ll see what happens. Now, it’s only 5:42 and I’ve still got about an hour to get ready. Plenty of time, right?_

Your closet door looms in front of you.

_Shit._

You stand in the walk-in closet and panic starts to set in. _Fuck, it shouldn’t be this hard to pick out clothes, right? A dress? Cardigan? Sweater? Oh god._ Then you see the strapless cream colored number with a hint of ruffle around the waist. _Okay, good. Something to go off of… now if I can just… here!_  A black collared jacket with lace and pretty white embroidery.

_Ooh, not too bad._

Just as you’re praising yourself, you sneak a peek at the clock.

5:58.

Shit.

Your innate hatred of high heels and what they do to feet makes you dig up a pair of black pumps with a low heel. They’re dusty, so you polish them up a bit at the sink. They’ll be fine.

Slipping them on, you wander across to the vanity table and sit down with the small selection of cosmetics. Light foundation, hint of dark gold eyeliner, light eyeshadow, touch of mascara, and soft pink lipstick. Natural, minimal, and not artificial at all. You remember the words he said earlier, and you smile when you just _know_ he’ll like it.  

Hair. Seems dry _and_  it's starting to curl. Waves it is. The straightener runs through your hair once, twice, and the tongs turn the bottoms of the silky locks into smooth, elegant spirals. Almost ready. Necklace? A small silver heart on a silver thread, the tiny charm resting in the space between your collarbones. A lot of pacing and self-ogling happens in those moments from 6:05 to 6:20.

You transfer your wallet, keys, and phone into a small clutch that slings from your shoulder over your hip. Deep breath. Excitement shouldn’t be this painful, right?

Leaving the flat, you’re surprised by how far the temperature has dropped since the afternoon. But if you go back now, there’s no way you’ll catch the 6:30 bus. Regretting your shitty habit of always dressing poorly for the weather, you grit your teeth against the chill, board the bus, and take the familiar ride to the studio.

The bus arrives and you get off, looking around. No one’s there except for the security guard. A few lights are still on in the building. Time reads 6:48. It is awfully early, after all. You go inside to wait. There are no chairs except in the sitting area, and the sitting area has no view of the door. You stand in the lobby. The minutes tick by, and you grow more and more nervous. The sun still lingers above the horizon, and you wonder why you didn’t bring a jacket. 6:52. 6:53. 6:54. The receptionist ignores your attempts at conversation. You go back to staring out the window.

You’re starting to give up when you remember that you have his phone number. So you fumble with your purse, digging around to find your phone, and step back out into the cold air. He picks up after three rings.

“Hello?”

“Tom?”

“Oh!” he seems surprised. “Where are you? Are you still coming?” He probably didn’t expect you to call. You blush a little when you realize that he’s recognized you by voice.

So he didn’t stand you up. Oh. “Yeah, I’m waiting in the lobby.”

A silence. “The lobby?” he asks.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“I was at your office, but the janitor shut off all the lights about ten minutes ago, so I changed locations.” His tone of voice changes, and you can practically hear him smile. “You’ll have to find me.”

And he hangs up. What? Find him? You stare at the phone in disbelief. Find him in this.. this maze of hallways? Oh god, this is going to be impossible. It’s not like you had a sense of direction in the first place. You didn’t even know where you were supposed to go.

 _Ah. But you do_ , a small voice says in your head, and you remember the room where you first met him. Your feet lead you through corridors and up flights of stairs until you find the room. It’s a dark hallway, but you see light coming out from beneath one of the doors. You smile and dial his number.

“Did you find me?” His voice is muffled through the door. You feign ignorance.

“I don’t know, did I?”

“You tell me, love. Open the door, and let’s find out.”

You twist open the knob and suddenly he’s there in a lovely blue vest and black jacket, less than a foot away, holding a single rose, and his dimpled smile is contagious. You’re charmed and you know it.

He seems frozen for a moment, lips slightly apart as he looks at you, but then his head gives the slightest of shakes and he smiles. “Hello. You look beautiful. Shall we go? I’ve got just the place in mind.”

“Lead the way, then.”

You follow him out the door, turning off the lights, and he guides you by way of cell phone flashlight, finding his way effortlessly to a different exit, one you’d never seen before. “It’s a lot faster this way,” he explains as he holds open the door for you, his suit jacket draped over his other arm.

“I’ve been here for more than a month, and yet you know your way around better than I do,” you tell him. He laughs, “well, thank you. My navigational skills aren’t generally this good, though. In fact, when...” and he tells you how he got lost on the set of one of the movies he was in, and the way the words roll off his tongue, perfumed with the soft and subtle bewitching tones of his classical Shakespearean voice, is captivating and funny, but you simply can’t seem to take your eyes off his face. 

Sometimes he turns to look at you and your eyes meet momentarily before you both duck away, embarrassed.

At some point, after walking down the darkened streets with the streetlamps and storefronts to light your way, he stops in front of a tiny door, and holds it open for you to pass through. It’s so small, he has to bend down to enter. The moment you step over the threshold, the aroma of pastries and cinnamon floods your senses and you gasp in surprise and delight.

“Fantastic, isn’t it?”

“More than fantastic.”

The shopkeeper, a white haired little man, seems to know Tom very well, and he gestures for the two of you to sit in a seat near the window. “ _Ciao, bella_ ,” he says, and you reply shakily, “ _buonasera, signor…?_ ”

He seems pleasantly surprised to hear Italian, and he replies, “ _Signor di Stefano. Piacere di conoscerla_.” He continues on, and you shake your head and blush. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, that’s all I know,” you say, and he and Tom both laugh.

“Really? You speak very well, _signora_. Your accent is very good! Where did you learn your Italian? From a very good teacher, I must say.”

You smile and nod at the compliment. “I studied several languages in high school, but one of my favorites was Italian.”

“You have an ear for it, _signora_. Why did you not continue with your study?”

Your smile fades slightly. “I… I thought language wasn’t my forte,” you say, hesitating. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Tom raise an eyebrow.

“Well, to be honest, I suppose it is, in a sense,” you smile and glance at Tom. “I’d say English is my forte, actually. Particularly Shakespearean English.”

As you watch him smile, chuckle that quiet little _ehehe_ again, you’re suddenly reminded of his photoshoot pictures that you managed to eventually get ahold of, and the more you think about it, the more those photos seem cold, rehearsed, unnatural, and simply not Tom. Not Tom at all. It seems so strange that the smouldering expression, an expression with grace and powerful elegance, could appear on his shining, grinning face, the face that crinkles up with dimples and smile wrinkles when he laughs, like right now.

“-with us, love?”

“Huh?” You’ve no idea what he said, and you blush as they both laugh.

“'Are you still with us, love?’ It’s alright if you’re not; you’re beautiful when you go off into your own little world.” Which prompts you to blush even harder.

Signor di Stefano rumbles with laughter before telling the two of you that he’d better get back to work, even though there’s no one around. He disappears behind the counter, and the two of you talk.

You find out that he’d grown up in Wimbledon but moved to Oxford when he was ten, that his parents divorced when he was thirteen, that he’d chosen acting as a way to calm himself down, and it’d just flowed naturally. He’s an Eton man, and later a Cambridge one, and you sigh when he tells you about his university days. The way he talks about the Amateur Drama Club makes it seem like you were there with him. It’s strange; he’s only a few years older than you, and yet it seems like he’s got the world wrapped around his pinky finger.

He's certainly got you wrapped around it, after all. 

At some point, a teapot and two cups appear on the table, and he pours you a cup of Earl Grey- spinning it around so the handle faces your right hand- and asks, “do you take sugar or milk with your tea?” You stammer something unintelligible, and he ends up putting a little milk and one cube of sugar, which turns out perfect.

Pouring his own cup and adding just a splash of milk, he says, “I don’t know many makeup artists who are interested in Shakespeare like you are. In fact, I don’t actually know a lot of people who genuinely like Shakespeare. Why’d you choose a career in cosmetics over an English major? I’m sure you would have done well in English.”

You lean back and sigh. “Well… it’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time, but if you don’t feel like telling me, it’s fine,” he assures you, but you take a sip of tea and you start to explain. You tell him about how you’d applied to so many schools that offered wonderful English majors, because you did start out wanting to major in English, but they’d all turned you down. Your grades in school weren’t bad, but they weren’t outstanding. Which ended up in your going to a small, local college, where you switched your major to Makeup Artistry and Effects, hoping that it would be a hell of a lot easier to get a job as a makeup artist than as an English professor.

You don’t tell him that after high school, you found out your mother was about to leave your father for another man and the money was running out because your parents kept spending it on booze. You don’t tell him the real reason why you switched, the fact that your mother called you one night, drunk as hell, and told you that you had no future, no brains, nothing. She’d told you to take the goddamn cosmetics scholarship and to quit wasting her money. You don’t tell him that you’d cried yourself hoarse that night and gone for a walk and returned at 4 in the morning to your dorm, hoping that everything was just a nightmare, only to wake up the next day feeling dead inside. You don’t tell him that if you could, you’d take back all of it. You don’t tell him any of that. You’d never told anyone any of that.  

When you finish, he’s still in the same pose as when you started: hands folded on the table, those striking eyes boring into yours. You think that there’s perhaps a spark of disbelief in them, but you blink, and they only hold pity and sadness.

"A-Ah, sorry for going on. I didn't mean to talk so much," you hastily apologize.

“That’s a real pity, love,” he says, and he’s not smiling so you can’t either. Your eyes burn a little with the weight of the words you didn’t say, and you blink, refusing to cry and ruin your date. “You’d have done beautifully.”

“It’s alright,” you say, and you smile a little, but it feels forced and artificial, as though someone had molded your face out of wax. “If I hadn’t switched, I wouldn’t have met you, right?”

His expression flickers, but doesn’t change. No smile. No _ehehe_. “Do you regret it?”

You freeze, and a million thoughts run through your mind, too fast for you to process. “Do… I...” you say slowly, pausing after each word. “I… I think I do. I regret it. I regret it so much.”

You break eye contact and look down. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe and what you really want to do right now is cry, but you can’t cry on your first date with Tom. What would he think? So you talk instead, you tell him the whole truth, and the words come rushing out like a river, unstoppable once they’ve begun to flow. And it hurts to say it all, to reawaken suppressed dreams and feelings, to actually tell someone about them for the first time, to drop that shield of _I’m okay_ and to show that _no, no I’m not okay, not okay at all because I never was okay in the first place_.

And when you finally finish your _real_ story and try to clean up your face with some sort of dignity- because contrary to your wishes, you _did_ cry- he’s sitting next to you, and his arm feels very, very comforting.

You stutter an apology for the mess you are, and he shakes his head, saying adamantly, “no, love, you’re not a mess, and you’re not weak at all. You’re stronger than I could ever be, and I’m glad that you told me the truth. Now, I’ll take you home. Come.”

He catches you gently by the arm and effortlessly helps you up to your feet. Leaving a few pounds on the counter to pay for the tea, he shakes off your feeble attempts to tell him that you brought money and holds open the door for you. It’s a little colder now and the cold bites right through that stupid cardigan, so he takes his suit jacket and drapes it around your shoulders, leaving him only in a crisp dress shirt. You stammer and offer your reluctance, but he assures you that it’s fine, that he’s not cold at all.

Standing at the curb, he waves at passing cabs, but they all seem to be occupied. You catch the corner of his sleeve and tug gently, and when he looks at you, you say that it’s alright, you’re fine with walking. He looks at you for a moment before he smiles faintly and asks, “may I…?” before tucking his arm around you again and strolling with you at a pace that is perfect for your shorter stature.

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this,” you say, breaking the silence after twenty minutes, “but you really are a gentleman.” He laughs, and you smile up at him when he says, “well, my mother and my father raised me to be that way. You should never treat a lady with anything other than honor and respect. They’re lovely people, both of them. It just didn’t work out. It happens.”

“I’d.. I’d like to meet them, I think," you let yourself say.

After a while, you let his hand slip from your shoulder and into your hand. His is warm and the long fingers intertwine with yours. You are glad when he lets go of your hand when you arrive at your flat and he does not immediately wipe your sweat on his pants. He follows you up a couple of steps as you take out your keys, and he smiles when he whispers, “when can I see you again?”

“As soon as I can,” you tell him, and you know by the widening of his smile that he’s sure to show up at work tomorrow. “Tom, I,” you stop, both of you realizing that this is the first time you’ve said his name to his face, “I want to thank you. Thank you so much for tonight. Thank you for listening to me. I… I really needed it.”

“Always, love.” And before he can leave, you lean down and place a quick peck on his cheek before you swing the door open and close it behind you. You peek through the peephole in the door, and see that he’s still standing there with his hand over the spot where you put your lips, and his smile is the most radiant thing in the world. He sighs, and you hear it faintly through the door before he shakes his head and descends the steps, smiling, and heads off into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s so easy to fall in love with this man, and it happens the way the seasons turn: smooth and slow, so slow that you barely realize it until summer’s glory is already upon you.

He visits often, popping up at your office out of the blue, bouquets of flowers in his lovely hands. They are different every time. Magnolias, irises, jasmine, tulips, daffodils, and of course, the roses every Friday night, when he appears at your office door and hangs around for sometimes hours as you rush to get your work done. When you ask him why he sticks around for so long in your boring office, he laughs and tells you that you’re beautiful. He smiles, and you smile, because there was no way that lips like that could carry anything but honesty.

The months pass, but you don’t get anywhere in your relationship. There’s a part of you that says to kiss him when he leans in slightly after walking with you to your flat, but you’re still afraid.  _ What if he hurts you? _ a tiny voice says.  _ You’ve been hurt before. _

And yet, Tom is never impatient. He doesn’t hurry you, doesn’t insist, doesn’t push you to make you change yourself. And it only makes you feel guilty that he treats you with such patience and kindness and respect, always waiting on you when you need the tiniest favor. You want to give it all back, to show him that you can love just as much. But it’s strange, how you can love someone with all your heart, and at the same time, fear them with all your heart as well.

The most you can do is to kiss him goodbye on the cheek, to dodge his lips at the very last moment, and to silently promise both him and yourself that someday, one of these eternally short summer days, your kisses won’t miss.

 

\+ + +

 

The nights get warmer and warmer, and one day near the end of August, it seems as though the temperature is perfect for a stroll so after work, you wave goodbye to the security guards and start off on your way home. You’re not entirely sure which way to go, but you’re sure you can ask directions. And besides, you’ve got nothing else planned tonight. You can afford to take your time.

Evidently not. An hour later, you’ve somehow ended up in one of the shadier neighborhoods in the city; knocked-over trash bins line street curbs, messy and obscene graffiti roam across the walls, a tense sort of silence as people watch you, this stranger, walk through their streets.

You look around, trying to catch someone’s eye and ask them for directions. Everyone looks at the ground. Some cross to the other side of the street. The first person you try to ask directly, a young woman, mumbles and brushes you off, quickly hurrying away. The next person you ask says he doesn’t know. The others avoid you altogether.

Fumbling around in your purse for your phone, you dial the number of the first person who comes to mind: Tom. Your grip tightens on your phone, and you beg silently for him to pick up. One ring. Two. Three.

“Hello?”

“Tom!” You almost cry into the phone, relieved to hear his voice.

His voice instantly becomes concerned and filled with worry. “Are you alright, love? What’s wrong?” 

“Tom, I- I think I’m lost. I thought I’d walk home today and I don’t know where I am.”

“Do you need me to pick you up?--”

“No! I mean, no, there’s no need for that, I’m sure you’re busy,” you tell him. You’re already bothering him when he’s probably at work or something, and besides, you don’t need a ride, you just need directions--

“I’m alright,” you amend, and he sighs on the other side. “I just need you to give me a few directions. I’d look them up myself, but my phone hasn’t got any internet access. I tried to ask the people here for directions, but,” you glance around, “they keep ignoring me.”

A short silence, then the sound of him shifting around and a computer starting up. “Alright, love. What street are you on?”

You look around for the street sign on the buildings. In the dimness of the dusk, that time just before the streetlights go on, you spot it, but you can’t make out the words on the sign. “Hold on,” you tell him, moving closer to the intersection, cupping a hand over the receiver to block out the noises of car engines and motorcycles. “I’m on Manor Pla--”

Suddenly, a hand shoves your phone aside and clamps onto your mouth hard enough to bruise, dragging you backwards with considerable force. The other hand encloses your waist, gets a better grip on you as you try to fight and get a glimpse of your attacker. Two men. Their emotionless black masks send a shiver up your spine. The one holding you forces you into a darkened vehicle as the other wrenches your fingers open and takes your phone, squeezing your wrist hard enough to make you let out a muffled scream. 

You lose your balance, fall, and hit your head on something in the vehicle. In a haze of foggy, pulsating pain, you hear Tom calling your name over and over again faintly, the light of your phone illuminating the darkness of the van, and you open your mouth to scream back, only to have some sort of rough fabric gag stuffed into your mouth. You work at it, spitting it out, when a sharp edge presses against your neck, and you freeze.

“Listen, missy. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t do anything we don’t like. Or it’ll hurt a lot. You’ve got body parts to spare. We just want some money, that’s all, and judging from your clothes, either you’ve got it or your boyfriend here’s got it.”

_ He’s not my boyfriend, we’ve only gone on a couple real dates, we’re not even official yet and I don’t even have that much money _ , you start to say, but the metal presses harder into your neck, and it stings a little. Warmth seeps down your neck. You decide that listening to these people is probably the best course of action.

“Good girl. Now, we’ll be taking you to a little somewhere, and when we tell you to, you’ll talk to your boyfriend here and tell him exactly what we tell you to say, okay? Nod ‘yes.’”

Yes.

“You’re doing fine,  _ love _ .” His voice is mocking. Some part of you wants to yell, to fight back, to tell this man that he is not allowed to speak that word that only Tom can call you, but the other parts tell you to shush, to live. The other man, the one not driving, takes a scrap of black cloth and blindfolds you, then proceeds to tie your hands and ankles together tightly. They must have taken off their masks after tying it, because when one of them picks up your phone and starts to talk, his voice is much clearer. He puts it on speaker.

“You still there?”

You imagine Tom freezing when he hears this man’s voice through the phone.

“Yes,” comes the eventual reply.

“Great. Now, we’ve got your girlfriend with us. And if you want her back, all you have to do is follow some directions and bring money. Am I making myself clear?”

“Quite. How much?” You shiver a little at the voice, shocked at how frigid Tom’s tone is.

“Ten thousand pounds. Run along, and make it fast. Don’t call the police. Have the money in tens and twenties. You have twelve hours. And don’t hang up. You do something wrong, well,” he pauses, and you swallow, feeling the knife press against your adam’s apple. “We’ll maim the missy so horribly, you won’t be able to tell it’s her when you find her body in the Thames.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!


End file.
